


An Experimental Apology

by J_Baillier



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Apologies, Don't copy to another site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Insults, John Is So Done, Minor Injuries, Miscommunication, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Told entirely through dialogue, dislocated shoulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:29:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21593845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Baillier/pseuds/J_Baillier
Summary: When a case leaves both John and Sherlock a bit worse for wear, heated words are exchanged and feelings get hurt. Can the damage be fixed?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 47
Kudos: 304





	An Experimental Apology

"You can stop your fretting now, it's just a superficial wound. I told you, Sherlock, I’m _fine._ "

"Should’ve let me call an ambulance. The location puts it close to the femoral nerve, the femoral artery, the––"

"It's going to be seven stitches, tops. Then we can go home. At least stop pacing, you're giving me whiplash."

"Where the hell is that doctor?"

"Probably patching up someone who is actually dying."

"Don't joke about dying right now, John."

"Okay, okay, sorry. Just… will you sit down? And stop eyeing the instrument tray."

"Suturing doesn't look all _that_ complicated."

"Yet for some reason they don't let just anyone do it."

"You could teach me."

"Not right now, I couldn't. You're shaking, my leg hurts, and you're even more impatient than usual. I know you hate hospitals, but…"

"I don't 'hate hospitals', _they_ hate _me_. The nurses talk to me for two minutes or take one look at the scars on my arms and suddenly, they can't get rid of me fast enough."

"Wonder why."

"I wouldn't have taken you for someone who'd condone prejudice against narcotics users."

"No. I don't. That’s not what I meant. I meant that you could certainly stand to be more, I don't know, cooperative?"

"I find that being less cooperative gets me service quicker. I’m not interested in being polite. I’m interested in being treated and leaving _as soon as possible_."

"You okay? You look a bit peaky."

"So do you."

"I'm alright, Sherlock, honestly. You can stop worrying, now. It was good, by the way. What you did. Tackling me since I couldn't see the guy. That was good. Definitely."

"You would have done the same. You _have_ done the same."

"Yeah. I have."

  
_____________________

"Where can I take ya lads?"

"221 Baker Street. The other one's paying."

"No, I'm not!"

"Don't sound so scandalised, Mr Trust Fund. We shook hands on it last time, remember? The deal is, I'd cover things until there is a suspect, and you’d take over paying from there."

"I left my wallet somewhere two hours ago. Or possibly last month. Can't remember."

"For fuck's sakes…"

"Matter settl’d, then, with the money back there?"

"Yes, thank you. All settled." 

  
__________________________

"Sherlock?"

"Mm."

"Your colour's still off. Anything you're not telling me? Wouldn't be the first time there's… something."

"Stop the car."

"Sherlock, what?"

"I said _stop the car_! I need to––"

"Christ. What was that for? You coming down with something?"

"No, it's… I turned it off but now it's… it came back. Rather suddenly, hence the nausea."

"You… what?"

"I turned it off."

"You have to be a bit less cryptic than that. What came back?"

"All sorted? Can I keep driving?"

"I don't know. Sherlock?"

"Might as well."

"Sherlock, I need to know what's going on."

"Shoulder."

"What about it?"

"There's some pain."

"Throwing up and looking like you're about to pass out is not 'some pain'."

"I underestimated the intensity; seems as though it may have increased after I turned it off. It’s returned. Intensely."

"The pain? You _turned it off_?"

"During my time away, I discovered that Tibetan monks have developed rather useful––"

"Tibetan…Never the fuck mind that, Sherlock. Where's the off switch when you get a papercut or when you announce you're done in from a head cold? Hm? Where's that meditative stoicism then?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Right. Coat off."

"Absolutely not."

"Sherlock…"

“Can’t. It hurts." 

"Then we have to cut it off. Don't look at me like that! Either you get it off the normal way, or… I'll give you a hand."

" _Don’t!_ "

"I was just going to––"

"Just give me a minute."

"Lean back against the seat. I'll slip your shirt back just a bit, would help it if wasn't so damned tight."

"It's more comfortable that way."

"Highly debatable.

"Ow!"

"How the hell… Sherlock, it's out of the damned socket! It's been like this the whole time?"

"I don't know what it's been, except a bloody nuisance."

"Right. Have you had one before?"

"Yes, _doctor,_ I do believe I had two shoulder joints before. What kind of a–––"

"A _dislocation_ , Sherlock."

"I don't have a dislocation."

"I can feel the ball joint where it's not supposed to be, and an empty socket where it _is_ supposed to be. Science of deduction, you idiot. It's dislocated."

"I–– No, I haven't."

"Still can't believe you didn't say a word at the emergency room. We could have had this sorted right there!"

"Nothing they can do that we can't manage at the flat."

"No, there’s certainly nothing they could do at a hospital that we couldn't manage at a dusty bachelor pad with a box of kitchen utensils!"

"Why are you angry? I’m in pain."

"Because you could have been rid of it long ago. I can’t believe you didn’t throw up or pass out at A&E? How’d you manage that?"

"There were more important things at hand. You. Your injury. But now you’re fixed and you can fix me."

"I can't fix it in a cab, Sherlock. We have to turn back."

"No! You can fix it at home. You always fix things at home. Can't you do some battlefield thing?"

" _Battlefield thing?_ "

"Surely they don't send troops back just because they've popped a shoulder."

"D'ya want me to turn back, then?"

"No, just take us to Baker Street."

______________________

"I do need to touch you to fix it. If this is ever going to work, you're going to have to try to relax."

"Proceed. God, that's–– ow! Is it done?"

"That was your rotator cuff muscles spasming; I haven't done anything yet. The longer the ball's out of the socket, the tenser the muscles get."

"At least warm me before you–– [screaming]."

"So that you could tense up in anticipation? Nope, this was better."

[heavy breathing]

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"That––"

"It's done. I rotated your scapula and the joint's back the way it's supposed to be. Sherlock?"

"That was… significantly more pain than I was prepared for. You told me that pain would stop when the integrity of the joint was re-established!"

"Re-establishing it requires pulling against the muscles. Sorry."

"It's… less, now. But I feel quite… bucket?"

"Right. Lift your feet up here, you look terrible. Breathe slowly. I'll get you some ice."

  
_____________________

"I look ridiculous."

"Beggars can't be choosers, and consulting detectives who refuse to go to A&E _really_ can't be choosers."

"It smells stale."

"Well, I wore that sling for two months after coming home from Afghanistan. What do you expect?"

"You should have washed it. The design looks like a five-year old drew it. I’m certain I could devise a better structure in five minutes."

"I didn't know you'd got your ortho consultancy, Doctor Holmes."

"Don't be snappy. And stop doing that–– thing with your eyes."

"They're just my eyes, they're not doing anything."

"You always make them go wide when employing sarcasm. It's not very subtle."

"Obviously far from subtle if _you_ can pick up on it."

"Excuse me?"

"Forget it. I'm tired, my thigh is sore, and I'm so fucking done dealing with you for tonight. I’m going to bed. There’s ibuprofen and paracetamol in the loo if you need it."

"How do I know which ones to take or how much?"

"A graduate chemist and you can't work a bottle of paracetamol?"

"You're very insulting today."

"And you're trying my patience like always."

"Oh. Suppose you’ll do some re-evaluation of your life choices, then, once you’re upstairs. Since co-existing with me is such a trial."

"I bloody well do question my life choices when you're being a self-destructive arse with no regard for anyone! It’s not easy having to babysit a grown man with no sense of self-preservation or even… common fucking _decency_."

"..."

"Sherlock?"

"..."

"Bucket's over there if you–– Sherlock? I'm s–– don't slam the bloody d–– _of course he fucking did_. Sherlock. _Sherlock_!"

"Go _away_ , since it's so obviously what you fantasize about all day."

"Just–– look, we're both tired and wet and annoyed and sore. I didn't mean that, what I said. You know I didn't, don't you?"

"How am I supposed to always be able to deduce when people mean things and they don't? Do us both a favour, John, and go to bed."

"You could open the door first."

"To what end?"

"I want to know you're alright."

"My physical status remains unaltered from sixty-four seconds ago, and I'm sure Mycroft will send you an email if I expire despite your rather unempathetic administrations."

"I'll say it if I have to: I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Words."

"Yeah, words. To make up for other words. Words I didn't mean."

"Yet you said them. Doesn’t matter much if it was your intent or your execution that was cruel, the end result is the same. _Goodnight_."

"Sherlock, please."

"You didn't feel like being polite before, so don't start on my account."

"Fine. We'll talk about this in the morning. Let's just… let's just regroup. Goodnight."

____________________

  
"Oh! I wasn't expecting you down at this hour, John! Sherlock said you'd want to sleep in after your brush with death."

"I didn't have a brush with death, Mrs Hudson; he's just being his usual melodramatic self. Where is he? What are you doing with his coat?"

"He's in the loo; poor thing, had to help him with his T-shirt, no way that shoulder would have fit into one of his usual ones. His brother's driver's been waiting ages downstairs; the new sling is not making getting dressed any faster."

"His brother's driv–– what new sling?"

"That thing, the one that's on him. Oh, Sherlock, you look so dreadful! You sure you wouldn't want John to go with you? He'd certainly be helpful, being a doctor and all."

"Go where?"

"You need not concern yourself with that. Mrs Hudson, my scarf if you please. Just drape the other side on my shoulder, no point taking the sling off."

"Is there a case? What's Mycroft––"

"No, there's no case."

"Regardless, Mycroft can wait. I need to examine your shoulder before you dash off; the swelling should have gone down a little, assuming there's no tendon damage."

"As I said, don't concern yourself. Kindly step aside. I have an appointment."

"Of course I'm going to concern myself! I'm your doctor!"

"My doctor? No longer. As of yesterday evening, you are relieved from said duty, as you have so fervently hoped for."

"Oh, dear. Have you boys had a domestic?"

"Mrs Hudson, I do believe I smell something burning downstairs. Perhaps you might…?"

"I can tell when I'm not wanted. Sort this out, the two of you, this _instant_ , you hear me? It's not healthy, being all cross at each other like that."

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson, _that will be all_. John, step aside."

"Not until I know where you're going."

"I have an appointment, as arranged by Mycroft, to get this seen to. I believe that an MRI and the attention of one of London's finest orthopaedic surgeons has been procured."

"You voluntarily asked _Mycroft_ for help?"

"Shocking, I know. Quite the contrast to your claim that I can't be trusted with… how did you so eloquently put it? Self-preservation and common fucking decency?"

"Sherlock… I know you don't like hospitals, and you don't like people you don't know. I'm still a trauma surgeon; I can give you that assessment and tell you if you need that MRI."

"Quite true, but unnecessary as I am no longer your patient. I binned the old sling; I think it's served its purpose. Good day, John."

________________________

  
"I think that's him downstairs, now. Thanks, Mycroft."

"John? Are you cooking?"

"It's an experiment. How'd your appointment go?"

"Excruciatingly tediously. The chicken drumsticks?"

"I'll get to them in a minute. Need a hand with the coat?"

"No, I'll… I'll manage."

"Sit down."

"Why?"

"Just… do it. I won't bite, nor will the drumsticks. New sling better?"

"I don't know. I haven't given it much thought. It doesn't smell like you."

"Right. Um. So. Here."

"Your suturing kit?"

"No, this is a fresh one from Barts. Molly brought it over."

"And you’re practising your stitches? Carry on then, I’ve things of my own to do."

"Such as? Never mind; this isn't for me. It's for you, if you need it spelled out."

"Me?"

"You've expressed an interest; not just yesterday but in general. And yes, I trust your knowledge of human anatomy and injuries to be sufficient. Certainly, a vast knowledge of injuries. And I was thinking… it would be nice not to have to sit around waiting to be seen at A&E when you could fix me up at home. You _can_ look after yourself, and others, when you put your mind to it. Isn't that what this whole thing with Mycroft was supposed to prove?"

"You're jumping to conclusions."

"Or maybe you’re not as covert as you think. Seems like Mycroft jumped to the same conclusion. First words out of his mouth when I rang him? 'John, what did you do?’"

"The doctor he picked was most uninspiring."

"I thought he was supposed to be London’s finest."

"He was tedious. You explain things to me quickly and concisely and don't waste time on niceties. He droned on about the rotator cuff as though I was a child and couldn't tell the difference between a tendon and a T-bone steak; before long, I found myself thinking about the marks left by different rope materials on decomposing human flesh."

"That's why I'm your doctor and not some posh git at a private hospital. Yes, I _am_ still your doctor. You can't get rid of me that easily. Any tendon or nerve damage?"

"No. Deficiencies in function are explained by swelling, he said. MRI clear except for what he called a borderline slap lesion. No need for treatment at this point besides PT or other such nonsense."

"It's not nonsense."

"You quit yours."

"I was a depressed idiot. I can pick a PT for you, or we can have Mycroft do it."

"God, no. You can make a list."

"Yes, alright. Now, back to the drumsticks."

"An experiment, you said. Which you never indulge in, unless assisting me."

"You can call it an experiment in apology. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I was tired, annoyed, and sore and I went too far and said things I shouldn't have."

"Things you think but don’t say aloud."

"You don't think bad things about people, even when you're upset with them, things that you'd take back?"

"Generally, my opinion on the idiocy of humans is quite stable."

"Take two weeks ago; you snapped at me in the cab when that suspect managed to rile you up."

"He did not 'rile me up', that's conjecture."

"Usually they try to punch you, not the other way around."

"He insulted you!"

"Alright, alright, maybe he did. And you didn't like that. So then you snapped at me when I stepped in."

"Stepped in how? We were both already in the room."

"Stepped in when you looked ready to smash his face in."

"He was being utterly despicable."

"Not arguing that, but my point is––"

"There's a point?"

"Shut it, berk, and listen."

"This is a strange apology."

"It'll be less strange once you let me actually say my piece. So, you said something nasty to me in the cab, and judging by your expression you regretted it the minute it came out."

"Possibly."

"Well yeah, so that's what happened last night."

"Generally, when people say mean things about me, they mean them and not just in the moment."

"God, that's… That's sad. And untrue."

"The evidence speaks for itself."

"Sherlock… I know you don't put much stock in what you call _greeting card phrases_ , but I'm sorry. I really am. You can be a handful, but I wouldn't have it any other way. You look after both of us all the time, in your own way. I just worry when you completely ignore yourself in the process of trying to make sure I'm alright, and stubborn, reticent patients have always been something I've had a hard time putting up with. I know people act out––"

"I don't 'act out'; I'm not a child."

"I said _people_. So, when people act out, it's because they're upset or worried or something else and they channel it by being nasty at healthcare personnel. It's understandable, but let's call it my pet peeve. I'm trying to help them as best as I can, and they're making it difficult."

"So I'm difficult."

"Yes, you bloody well are sometimes, but that doesn't make me want to quit helping you in general. I don't want you to have to call Mycroft to check you into some private clinic for something I can help you with, I really don't. I know it's hard for you."

"I can't say I particularly enjoyed today, no."

"So. I teach you how to help _me_ avoid hospitals _with you_ in the future, and I take back what I said last night because today, I really don't mean it."

"Alright. Hard to suture things one-handed, though. That insipid man told me to wear the sling for a week more."

"That insipid man is right, and I'm sure the greatest brain in London can come up with a way to do this. Or, we can postpone the lesson."

"Absolutely not. Mycroft would argue your estimate of the greatest brain in London."

"I’m sure he would. Regardless, yours is the only one I'm interested in. Now, open this package and find the needle."

"The curved design is logical."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only clever person in history."

"But I'm the only one you're interested in."

"Accurate."

"You really think I'm difficult?"

"No, unless you don't start rescuing that poor slashed drumstick right now."

— The End —

**Author's Note:**

> [[an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25011148)]
> 
> Beta help received from Lady Elldotsee.


End file.
